


Shaded

by Jadewing47



Category: The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Abuse, Anxiety, Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Crying, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmare, PTSD, Past Rape/Non-con, Separation Anxiety, Sleep Deprivation, boreo, thegoldfinch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:27:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22833277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadewing47/pseuds/Jadewing47
Summary: One night Theo awakes to find Boris glassy-eyed and mute, sulking by his window. The ever-darkening shadows under his eyes began to tell the story of Boris' dark past, the parts of him that he never intended for Theo to see. But Theo understands, and now it's his turn to hold the black-haired boy through the nightmares he'd never told Theo he had.
Relationships: Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky
Comments: 15
Kudos: 169





	1. Chapter One

It wasn't unusual for me to wake up in the middle of the night, panting and drenched in sweat, my own screams echoing in my ears, flashes of my dreams still dancing in front of my eyes. Not a day went by without my brain reliving every second of The Explosion. I still remember the feeling of unease as the men came running from the other room across from me, yelling and screaming, shoving the people in their way aside. I wonder if they were hoping they would escape. I can still see the white flash of an explosion, the ringing in my ears, the taste of dust and plaster raining down on my head, the scent of metallic blood everywhere, on my hands, on the floor, on the people and limbs scattered around me. Usually, when I would awaken from one of these nightmares, the sheets tangled around me damp with my sweat and my heartbeat throbbing in my chest, there would be a soft rustle at my side and an alarmingly pale, thin arm would wrap around my torso, pulling me into a cool chest clothed in a black t-shirt, black curls tickling my nose as slightly chapped lips pressed softly against my forehead; Boris. His fingers would rub small circles on my back, his other hand would tangle into my hair and gently run through it, nails scraping against my scalp the way he knew I liked. Our legs would tangle together, bodies as close as humanly possible as I trembled against him. Boris would pause the circles on my back and tug the blankets around me, securing them around my shoulders so I wouldn't be cold before his hand quickly returned to the gentle circles. From his lips, still resting softly on my forehead, came sweet nonsense words, some in English, but most in Russian assuring me that I was safe, everything was okay; _just sleep, shhh, Potter is only me_. The terror was still there, it would never go away completely, but with Boris there cradling me in his arms, I would feel so much safer. His gentle breaths and soft humming in Russian would slowly lull me back to sleep, his scent of beer and cigarettes mixed with an entirely foreign scent reminding me vaguely of freshly cut wood that was just Boris brought me comfort, my invisible security blanket as I nuzzled my head into his neck, tucking my arms between our stomachs and breathing slowly. When morning came I would always open my eyes to find him reading quietly next to me, one arm still wrapped protectively around me while the other balanced his worn copy of The Idiot in Russian on his lap. I never awoke to him sleeping, nor to an empty bed after one panicked morning waking up to find him missing, (he had just gone to make some tea) and tearing through the house screaming his name in blind terror that he had left me. After that morning (I think I'd scared him shitless) he always waited for me to wake up before he left, which while part of me felt guilty for his trouble I also was comforted that I never had to fear waking up alone.

This night, however, was different. I didn't shoot up in bed as I usually did, eyes were blown wide as I searched the room for any signs of danger and my mother. Instead, I slowly became aware of a soft tapping sound coming from someplace vaguely behind me, loud enough to slowly wake me but not enough to send me into a fit of anxiety over possible intruders. It was the first night ever since The Explosion that I'd awoken in the middle of the night from causes other than horrid flashbacks. For a moment, I relished in the peace that thought brought me, my shoulders sagging from the tension I hadn't known I had and my head shifting slightly on the pillow. Soon the soft tapping became a borderline annoyance, and I very slowly (as not to wake Boris) rose to a sitting position on the bed, careful not to disturb the blankets very much. My first glace was to my left towards the wall where Boris always slept (he'd always seemed to like having his back to a wall) only to my surprise it was empty, the blue sheets (he'd brought me colorful ones) wrinkled and messy as though their occupant had left with haste. Panic was the first to bubble in my stomach, the traces of peace draining from my body as my mind came up with all the horrid possibilities to explain his absence from the bed. A glance to my right at the alarm clock read 3:16 am, and while I tried very hard to assure myself that the most likely possibility was that he'd simply gone to use the bathroom or to fetch himself a glass of water, my body was cold and tense. We had spent so much time together that the mere thought of being apart made my heart rate climb high, my fists to clench tightly, and my muscles to grow tense. The actuality of being separated from Boris, who I'd grown to think of as mine and I his, brought the pressing weight of tears behind my eyes and my body went cold.

My ears once again registered the soft tapping noise coming from across the room and my eyes followed it, landing on the dark form of my friend perched on the windowsill, lacking his usual bird-like grace as he slumped on the edge of the wall, one leg drawn to his chest and the other dangling in the air. In his left hand, he held a cigarette, halfway smoked with the ash scattered on the windowsill and on the floor from the slight breeze coming through, blowing his curls around his head in a rather artsy way. Boris' left hand rested in his lap, though it lacked the usual copy of The Idiot that it normally held in times like this. My fear was slowly draining away, replaced with confusion. I quietly crept out of bed and tiptoed to his side, though he didn't seem to notice me. His eyes were glassy but they lacked the redness that always seemed to rim them when he took drugs. Boris was staring at something in the distance of the desert, his mind still not registering my presence beside him. I peered out the window, but I could see nothing that might have caught his interest.

"Boris?" I called softly and was startled when he flinched rather violently, his head snapping towards me while one hand went to the corner of the ledge to steady himself. His eyes were now fixed on me, wide and less glassy then they were before. There was something about the way he looked at me that almost rang familiar in my head in an alarming way, but I couldn't place my finger on it. Instead, I glanced back at the alarm clock, the red glowing numbers now reading 3:28 am, before my gaze returned to his.

"It's late, why are you up?" I asked, stepping closer to him. Boris' dark eyes shifted in the direction of the clock, something flashing through them before returning to me. His gaze, which had reminded me of a startled child, melted into nonchalance. He plastered a loopy smirk on his lips, obviously fake even in with the shield of darkness, tilting his head to the side before explaining, "Couldn't sleep," in a raspy voice, almost as though he had been crying. My hand gently bumped his and immediately my attention switched to his skin, which was icy to the touch.

"Shit, Boris, you're freezing," I muttered, suppressing my own shiver as I reached behind him to shut the window. Boris shrugged, staring at something behind my head, the same glassy look in his eyes as before had returned. For a second, I simply stared at him, before giving his arm a soft tug in the direction of the bed. Boris resisted, shaking his head with an odd smile on his face.

"Can't sleep." He repeated to me, and I rolled my eyes. "Better to try at least," I protested, giving his arm another tug. Boris was silent for a moment.

"Sleep Potter, do not worry. I will come back later, eh?" Boris' tone seemed casual, almost too casual for my liking. My stomach ached slightly, something was wrong, but Boris was right, I did need sleep and I assumed it wouldn't harm anything to let him remain at the window until his eyelids felt as heavy as mine. Still, I lingered for a moment, a small frown on my face as I watched Boris scratch the back of his head. He did that whenever he was nervous. "Come back soon, though," I said softly, unsure of myself as I slowly backed away from the window and towards my side of the bed. Boris nodded at me, and I slipped back into bed, falling asleep almost immediately as my head hit the pillow.

I awoke the next morning in the typical fashion, Boris' arm around me as he read from his book. I shifted in bed, alerting him that I was awake as I propped myself up on my elbows. "You end up coming back to bed last night?" I asked. Boris didn't hesitate, offering me both a "yeah" and a vigorous nod, but the dark shadows under his eyes told me the truth.

They had been growing darker for as long as I can remember now.


	2. Chapter Two

I didn't worry about much. Xandra would often leave hoards of leftover foods from the bar she worked at in the fridge, and my father sporadically gave both Boris and me ridiculous amounts of money. It was rare to see either of them unless Boris and I spent the weekend at my house, which occasionally happened, especially when Boris' father was home (which was hardly ever). Anything we couldn't steal was covered by the money my father gave us, which we pooled together and shared. We ate our meals together, drank together, and took whatever drugs Boris could get his hands on together. We spent our school days together when we could as we had most of our classes together. We rode the bus together, walked home together, lazed around the house, sat on the swings in the abandoned park, and sometimes roughhoused in the pool. I had always been wary of doing that ever since one night when we had way too much vodka and decided to dip in the pool under the stars. Boris' face was still covered in blood and I was glad he was willing to swim, as somewhere in the back of my mind the logical side of me muttered something about the chlorine disinfecting his wounds or something like that. It was definitely better than perfume anyways.

_*"Christ, I'm choking. I've got to get this off me." he'd said while I laughed. We stumbled outside-shredding our clothes, hopping one-legged out of our pants as we went-and jumped into the pool: bad idea, I realized in the too-late, toppling-over moment before I hit the water, blind drunk and too wrecked to walk. The cold water slammed into me and almost knocked my breath out. I clawed to the surface: eyes stinging, chlorine burning my nose. A spray of water hit me in the eyes and I spit it back at him. He was a white blur in the dark, cheeks hollow and black hair plastered on either side of his head. Laughing, we grappled and ducked each other, even though my teeth were chattering and I felt way too drunk and sick to be horsing around in eight feet of water._

_Boris dove. A hand clamped my ankle and yanked me under, and I found myself staring into a dark wall of bubbles. I wrenched; I struggled. It was like in the museum again, trapped in the dark space, no way up or out. I thrashed and twisted, as gulps of panicked breath floated before my eyes: underwater belts, darkness. At last- just as I was about to gulp in a lungful of water- I twisted free and broke to the surface. Choling for breath, I clung to the edge of the pool and gasped. When my vision cleared, I saw Boris-coughing, cursing-plunging towards the steps. Breathless with anger, I half-swam, half hopped up behind him and hooked a foot around his ankle so that he fell face-forward with a smack._

_"Asshole," I sputtered when he floundered to the surface. He was trying to talk but I struck a sheet of water in his face, and then another, and wound my fingers in his hair and pushed him under. "You miserable shit," I screamed when he surfaced, heaving, water streaming down his face. "Don't ever do that to me again." I had both hands on his shoulders and was about to dive on top of him-push him down, hold him for a good long time-when he reached around and clasped my arm, and I saw that he was white and trembling. "Stop," he said, gasping-and then I realized how unfocused and strange his eyes were.*_

From that day forward I couldn't get the way his eyes looked out of my head. They haunted me, the strangely unfocused glaze to them was almost identical to the clouded orbs that had startled at my voice the night before; only without the added terror and blood. In the peaceful morning where I drift awake slowly without fear, looking up to find him engrossed in a passage of The Idiot I run the events of that night at the pool in my head over and over again. I was drunk out of my mind and barely able to function, but I wish so badly that I had insisted for an answer, and explanation for why he was shaking and his face was sheet white. I ponder asking him now, but there is an awkwardness to doing so, as though such a question was reserved for that night and that night alone, and I had missed my chance.

Instead, we continue our odd routine as usual. He doesn't offer and explanation and I don't ask. The morning after I find him perched on the windowsill, the same glassy look in his eyes and his features drawn in almost sadness, I don't call him out for his obvious lie to me. I don't find it to be such a big deal. Boris had always been a rather restless person, always coming up with insanely (and very obviously) illegal things to do, lecturing me about the horrors of government, sometimes scaring the shit out of me when he randomly would jump and yell something, often in Russian or Polish but sometimes English too, and often not making much sense. I always fell asleep long before he did, and was an early riser. He would often elect to stay by my side in the mornings, playing with my hair lazily or reading instead of bouncing around and waking me up. I never thought much about it, that was just who Boris was. His under eyes were always rather shaded but it was never much of a concern to me.

Our week passed by in usual. I saw Xandra once thought the entirety of the week and that was just to inform me that she and my father were going to be staying somewhere a few hours away for two weeks on "business" and to drop off a boatload of snacks and money from my father. She'd lectured me about disappearing cigarettes and told me to take my empty beer bottles to the dump instead of leaving them around the house, but she always told me these things. As quickly as she had come, she left and Boris and I were left to our own devices, which wasn't unusual as this was almost always the case even when Xandra and my father weren't out. We went to school, as usual, dragging our feet and popping aspirins for our headaches. Boris took aspirins too, however, he hadn't been drinking as much as he usually did. We smoked weed on Tuesday but that was the only thing he brought all week. Compared to his usual never-ending energy, Boris was quieter. I started noticing the smell of cheap coffee on his breath instead of vodka.

I didn't worry about much. Yeah, sometimes I needed to worry about what I was going to eat or what chemicals to buy to clean the pool, but now the ever-persistent thought in my head was Boris.

*The Goldfinch, Donna Tartt


	3. Chapter Three

I rarely dreamed about anything besides my mother and the taste of plaster in my mouth. I would start out by the painting, staring at the small chain around the little bird's leg. I could feel my mother's hand dragging off my shoulder, missing the warmth of her touch as her fingers slipped into the air. I knew what was going to happen, I could see her smiling at me as she walked away but I couldn't turn my head in her direction. I could hear the shouts of people and heavy fall of footsteps and I _knew_ it was the men running from the bomb, but all I could do was stare at the little goldfinch and it's a silver chain as plaster-filled smoke encased the room and my vision went dark.

When I opened my eyes, I was standing in the middle of it all. Every surface, every object, even the air was coated in thick grey dust. My body ached, my throat was dry, my eyes and nose stung from plaster and the metallic scent of blood. My ears were ringing; it sounded like I was underwater, but this time I could make out the faint call of my name. It was an effort to move my head, but I could. Everywhere I looked there were bodies, parts of bodies, shoes, maps, other belongings that had been scattered around the room, sticky with blood and coated in dust. Something was moving in the distance, and I was drawn towards it. My feet felt like lead and the distance, while only a few yards, seemed almost impossible. But I kept moving, one foot before the other, the need to reach the moving figure, which I could now make out was a hand, overpowering my pain. It was only when I was mere inches away from the figure that I realized who it was, and I nearly vomited at the sight. It was Boris, laying on his stomach, barely holding himself up with his left arm while the other reached out towards me, shaking with the strain. His long legs were bent at awkward angles that I knew shouldn't be possible. His body was smudged in brown and grey dust, his shirt with plaster. His fingers were coated in red, and I noticed a steadily growing pool of the red coming from underneath him. _No, no, no, no this isn't real, you shouldn't be here, you weren't supposed to be here._ My brain frantically tried to assure me that this was impossible, but somehow Boris was here in the museum with me, the light quickly fading from his beautiful dark eyes. I crashed to my knees in front of him, not knowing what to do or say or how to save him. I _had_ to save him. His head was shaking, his curls matted with blood and dust and other things I didn't want to know the origins of. He was crying, dirty tears running down his face and disappearing under his shirt. "Potter," he was trying to say, though it came out garbled and weird. "Potter, please,". My hand found his and he coughed, blood bubbling up from his mouth and dribbling down his chin, he was blinking, hard, as his head lowered to the floor, too weak to hold it up any longer. "Boris, no please, I can't lose you," I whispered, leaning close to his face. I didn't know what to do. I needed to help but I didn't know how. A small, crooked smile formed on his lips, distorted by blood and other things. "Potter I-" he was trying to tell me something, but before he could finish his body jerked violently, and suddenly went still. His eyes were clouded, grey. For a second, I could only stare at him, a raw feeling spreading through my chest, my head shaking back in forth in denial. Pain consuming me in a way I'd never felt before, I screamed, and I didn't stop. Our hands were still intertwined and I squeezed him as hard as I could, the noise coming from my mouth was animalistic. "Come back! Come back!" I screamed at him, shaking him with all the strength I had, but he only stared lifelessly behind me. 

My eyes flew open to meet Boris', only now they were his usual blackish brown, filled with concern and terror. For a second, we both stared at each other. I was aware that my throat was raw, and my body wet with sweat. He was leaning over me, one hand on my shoulder while the other cradling my head, his face paler than usual and hands trembling slightly. 

"Theo?" He whispered, but it sounded weird from him. I don't think he'd ever said my real name before, and with his accent, it sounded more like teee-oh, uncertain and scared. 

Without thought I launched myself up, burying my head in his chest and wrapping my arms tightly around him, sobbing. I could practically feel his shock, I don't think I'd ever had a nightmare this bad before. He shifted so that he was sitting on the bed, his back resting on the wall and I let him maneuver me so that I was practically sitting in his lap. 

"Shhh," he cooed, running his fingers through my hair and rocking us both back and forth as I cried, "shh, it's okay, shhh." It took me several minutes before I calmed down, my arms still tight around his waist, and my ear pressed to his chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat soothing me. He was alive. It was just a dream. There was no blood or dust or plaster. His limbs were a pale, milky white instead of coated in grime, and his eyes were clear, although somewhat tired looking. His skin had always been cooler than mine, but compared to how his hand felt in my dream he was warm, his heart beating strong and chest rising and falling with each breath that he took. Boris was peering down at me, an odd expression on his face as he studied me, no doubt trying to understand what had scared me so badly through body language alone. Boris had always had an uncanny talent of knowing what you were thinking. 

"Theo?" Boris called softly. A warm feeling spread in my stomach at the sound of my real name. It was strange coming from his lips yet somehow that made me love it all the more. My eyes traveled to his and almost immediately, encased in his warm gaze and arms I felt safe. "You were screaming," he said softly, "you kept screaming for me." I knew I should have been embarrassed, but instead, I just started crying again. 

"You were there!" I sobbed, the vision of blood bubbling from his mouth and the life draining out of his eyes burned into my memory forever. 

"Where?" he asked softly, fingers rubbing circles on my back as he usually did whenever I had a nightmare. 

"The museum. You were there and-oh god there was so much blood. I couldn't-I couldn't _do_ anything and your eyes...they were just _dying_ and you were trying to tell me something but you couldn't cause you were dead. You were _dead_ Boris and it was my fault and you wouldn't come back and-and-" my breaths were panicked, my hands clinging to his shirt so tightly my knuckles were white. Boris swallowed thickly, before gently prying one of my hands from his shirt and placing it over his heart. He lay his hand over mine. 

"Do you hear that?" he asked, his gaze not leaving mine, "is my heart, yes? It is strong, and it will still be strong as long as you are here." I could feel it, beating a bit faster than it had been before but it was there. Boris pulled the covers over me and kissed my forehead.

"I will not leave you, Theo." he murmured, smiling at me softly. His gentle heartbeat and soft humming in Russian lulled me back into sleep, this time without the horrors of before. But when I woke up, Boris was still humming the same song as before, his voice a bit raspy and the bruises under his eyes dark indigo. I frowned; today I had to do something about this. 


	4. Chapter Four

It was a Friday night when I finally decided to say something to Boris. The bruises under his eyes had grown dark enough that a few people at school had started to comment on them, but if that bothered Boris in any way he didn't show it. He didn't eat anything at lunch, and neither did I. Instead I found myself staring at him, taking in his hunched position as he stared at the black table we were sitting at. He had gone home the night before and now looked worse than ever. He was wearing that red-knit sweater I loved. It was baggy on him, though he was skinny enough that everything he wore was, but it brought color to the lifeless sand dune that we lived in. His soft, black curls were blowing slightly in the breeze, and although he looked beautiful, his eyes were sad. In addition to the dark circles that were alarming me, his right eye was swollen and a dark purplish, rimmed with red as though he'd gotten punched. I'd noticed when we got off the bus that he was walking strangely, almost stiff. I may have been imagining it, but I thought I could detect a small shimmery line running down his face: faded tear tracks.

He must have felt me staring, because he slowly lifted his head, his eyes turning to meet mine. They looked almost empty, and for a second I could see the blood and dead look from my dream all over again. I couldn't lose Boris, I just _couldn't._ But I had no idea what was happening and was at a loss of how to ask.

"My dad came home last night," he said to me, his voice flat. I suddenly realized how different he was. I missed the spark of mischief in his eye, the way he bounced around as though on top of the world, the passion-filled lectures he would randomly give me on capitalism, the wild energy that he always seemed to have, everything that made him Boris had seemed to just drain out of him, and I was too preoccupied in my own head to realize it sooner. I didn't really know what to say to him, but I moved closer to him so that our shoulders were brushed lightly against each other, and my eyes settled on the hook-shaped mark on his forehead. It was a pinkish color, darker in the middle and lighter on the edges. It was raised and tight-looking, clearly going to scar but taking it's time to do so. We spent the remains of the day in silence, but I made sure to sit close to him, close enough to touch so that he knew I was there.

* * *

That night we lazied on the couch together, munching on chips and sipping hot tea. I wondered a few times about getting up to grab a beer for him and me, or changing the channel which was on a boring news show, but I didn't want to disturb the odd sense of peace that filled the room, even though I was uneasy at the quiet. My eyes didn't start to feel heavy until much later, around 1:53 am. I yawned, not bothering to cover my mouth and I felt Boris punch me softly in the arm.

"Ha! Sleepy Potter," he announced laughing, and soon I was as well. For a few minutes, it was though everything was normal, and I so wanted it to be. I wished that Boris' black eye, the hook-shaped scar, and his frightening dark circles that no matter how many times I saw still shocked me every time, were just a bad dream. But my laughter died as I noticed his hands shaking. He was clenching his fists, which were pressed to his side, as though attempting to hide it from me, but when it came to Boris I noticed everything. I pretended not to though, standing and stretching, another yawn coming forth and causing Boris to snort.

"We should go to bed," I said, my tone making it sound more like a statement rather than a suggestion. But Boris shook his head, eyes still fixed on the television as though it were something interesting.

"Eh, I'm not tired," he said dismissively, waving his hand as he did. Something surged through me at that. He was lying, and it was hurting him. I remembered his dead eyes, his hand reaching towards me, his bloody mouth and then nothing, just death. Fuck that.

"Bullshit," I snapped, startling both of us. I grabbed his arm suddenly, pulling him up and forgetting about my earlier observations about his odd walking. He groaned, his hand covering his chest protectively. I wasted no time in lifting up his shirt, despite his half-hearted protests, and gasping at the dark bruises that littered it. He had taken off his shirt in front of me many times before, but my vision was usually distorted by alcohol and I never got a good glimpse of it. His stomach was concave, and I could see every single one of his ribs. There were odd scars on his side that almost looked as though he'd been attacked by an animal. His face was red, staring everywhere but me. I blinked, shaking my head slightly.

"First I'm getting you an icepack." I murmured. Once I had realized that the only form of disinfectant I had was Xandra's perfume I had immediately bought a first-aid kit when Boris and I had returned to the store. He had fixed me with a questioning gaze, and I had shrugged, the cut on his forehead had been a dark angry red, and when he'd insisted he was fine I'd asked him if he'd rather the perfume over rubbing alcohol. He'd glared at me but didn't argue any further.

I hadn't let go of his arm and now I gently led him to my room. He sat on the bed with a wince but didn't seem to be in any life-threatening danger.

"Don't go anywhere, I'll be right back," I said. He rolled his eyes. "Where the fuck would I go?" But I was serious. I couldn't get the raw feeling of pain from my chest ever since I'd seen him "die".

I returned with an ice pack and pain-relieving cream, and despite his protests and insisting that he could do it himself, I rubbed the cream on his bruises with the utmost care, and after sliding his t-shirt back down (he had changed when we'd gotten home) I held the icepack over his eye, sitting next to him on my bed. I handed him an aspirin which he swallowed without water.

After a few minutes, he moved away from the ice, giving me a soft smile and a quiet "thanks". I put the pack on my nightstand before sliding under the covers on my side of the bed. Boris eyed me warily and I stared right back.

"Boris, what's wrong?" I ventured, watching him tense slightly. He seemed to be debating something in his head before he shook his head at me.

"Nothing." He moved to crawl underneath the covers too and reached to turn off the light. I watched him, at a loss of what to do. I didn't close my eyes until his breathing had slowed to the tell-tale signs of sleep.


	5. Chapter Five

I hadn't been lying when I'd said my eyes were heavy. As soon as I was sure Boris was actually asleep and not lying to me again, I curled up on my side and fell fast asleep. My room was warm and quiet, and I always slept better when Boris was near. Since he had returned home the previous night my sleep had been restless and interrupted, thankfully not from nightmares but rather aching loneliness in my heart that wouldn't dull until I saw him again the next morning. Boris and I had slept together many times before, and he usually was dead-still, which I had found a little odd at first as awake he was a bursting bubble of explosive energy, and often wouldn't stop moving, however in the odd between stages of consciousness and sleep I could feel him shifting next to me, subdued enough to still be asleep, but strange compared to his usual behaviors.

I was exhausted, both from the lack of sleep and my obsessive worrying over Boris' recent odd behavior, but it felt like mere seconds before I was awakening again. There was movement coming next to me, and the sheets seemed almost damp. My head snapped up fast enough to hurt as a scream pierced the air laden with terror and loss and pure _agony_. My eyes were wide and my heartbeat thundering in my chest as my gaze almost immediately fell upon Boris. His eyes were moving rapidly back and forth under his eyelids, his shirt wet with sweat as he thrashed around violently, his breaths harsh and panicked.

"Boris!" I called, sitting up quickly, leaning over him and shaking his shoulder. He jerked away from my touch, screaming.

"нет!" his voice was cracking, filled with pain and terror. I didn't know what else to do but continue to try and shake him awake.

"Boris," I repeated, my voice louder now, "Boris wake up," I leaned over him, shaking both of his shoulders when he didn't respond to me. For a split second, I saw his eyes open but I had no time to read his emotions because he screamed again and suddenly my chest hurt and I was launched from the bed. I hit the floor hard enough to knock the wind out of me, and for a second lay there confused. My chest hurt badly and I gathered that he must have shoved or punched or kicked me off the bed in his fear. I stood quickly and was shocked at the sight before me. The blankets were half dragged on the floor which must have been a result of Boris' attempt to escape the bed. Boris himself was in the furthest corner of the room, his knees drawn to his chest and his arms covering his head protectively. He was sobbing, the sounds loud and harsh as he mumbled broken pleas in Russian, all of which I knew. He was rocking back and forth, and I could hear him choking on his own breaths.

"Нет, пожалуйста, не надо! Пожалуйста, мне так жаль! мне жаль!" _No, please don't! Please, I'm so sorry! I'm sorry!_ I moved slowly towards him, kneeling down by his side as he continued to plead.

"Пожалуйста, пожалуйста, прекратите, я не хочу этого, пожалуйста, извините! Я сделаю все, только перестань, пожалуйста, это больно" _Please! Please stop! I don't want it! Please I'm sorry! I'll do anything just stop, please it hurts!_ He begged between choked breaths. He was wheezing, not enough air getting in and I was terrified, his broken pleas in Russian giving me a stomach ache. I could only imagine what he was seeing. I didn't know what to do, but I doubted Boris did either when he calmed me from my nightmares, so I tried to do what he did with me. I reached out and gently touched his arms protecting his head, biting my lip when he flinched violently as though I had hit him. "Пожалуйста..." he whimpered.

"Shhh, Boris everything is okay." I murmured, leaning close to him so he could feel my breaths on his neck in a way I hoped was grounding. "You're safe, you're safe now, I've got you, just breathe Boris, everything is alright now, I promise." He'd stopped screaming which I took as a good sign. He was shaking more visibly now, his breathing less forced but his tears still loud and heartbreaking.

"Theo?" he suddenly called, panic in his voice. His head raised as he called my name again his eyes wide and frantic as his hands grabbed at nothing. I took his hands into my own, pressing our foreheads together and I stared into his eyes and whispered, "I'm here, I'm here Boris." He whimpered, sinking into my embrace as I had done many times before with him.

"Theo, please, they're gonna-they're gonna make me do it again!" he cried into my chest. I wanted to know who he was talking about, but now was not the time for explanations. "It's just us Boris, no one else is here I promise. You're safe."

"I don't want to do it, please Theo it hurt don't let them make me do it!" he begged, panic rising in his voice again. I shook my head, one hand supporting his back while the other ran through his hair gently, just like he did with me. "No one's gonna make you do anything, I promise," I said. He held on to me tighter, though his tears and panicked breaths were slowly quieting. I began to hum a tune my mother had sang to me when I was little. I don't remember the words nor what it was called, but as an anxious child, it had always soothed me and seemed to have a similar effect on Boris. I continued to hum to him even after he had quieted, his breaths evening out and his cries reduced to only small sniffles here and there. I was angry I hadn't noticed his fears before. I knew so little about his personal life, only the things he had voluntarily told me, and he was the kind of person who didn't like to reveal his problems with others for fear of being abandoned as a burden. This I had deduced in the early stages of our friendship through many of his mannerisms and behaviors. He would have no qualms with caring for others, even seemed happy to, but when it came to himself he bottled up his troubles, and it seemed that was causing him much more harm than good. I was starting to realize now why his eyes were so shaded.


	6. Chapter 6

It felt like forever that we sat there together in the corner, Boris quiet in my arms while I hummed my mother's old forgotten tunes. I debated with myself about what to do next, unsure of whether or not I should ask Boris what he had dreamt about, or if I should just wait for him to offer the information himself. Part of me, a selfish part, didn't want to know what horrid things Boris had seen in his dreams, or what dark memories may have triggered such an intense panic attack, or who he was screaming at, or what he was begging them not to do. Boris was my rock, he had been so ever since the day we had met. I'd melted into his protectiveness over me and loved the thrill I got whenever he taught me new things like how to snort cocaine or his favorite swear words in Russian. I was afraid to admit that I'd failed him as a friend, too caught up in my own head to acknowledge that Boris might have his demons too. To my credit, he had never seemed that bothered when his father would beat him, nor very heart-broken over his mother's death, but I'd never pushed beyond what he'd told me, and that was how we'd worked.

At last, Boris was the first to move, his arms (which were snaked around my torso) slackening in their death-grip and falling into his lap as he leaned away from me, swiping at his eyes and nose and staring at the floor.

"I'm sorry I woke you," he whispered very quietly, and I had to strain to hear him. For a second I was at a loss for words, "You...don't apologize for that Boris, it's not your fault." I said gently, wishing he would look at me. He didn't respond, instead focusing on picking at the skin around his nails.

"Do you want to talk about it?" I asked, reaching out and taking his hands when I noticed he was making his fingers bleed a little bit. Boris shook his head, swallowing thickly. "Is nothing," he whispered.

"Boris, I can't help you if I don't know what's going on," I pushed. I remembered the first time I'd ever had a nightmare around Boris. I'd sat up quickly in bed and attempted to slow my loud breathing back to normal, praying that I hadn't woken him. I was too afraid to look and see, but my prayers were not answered because soon two dark, chocolate brown eyes were peering at me from my left side. I had been so afraid that Boris would judge me, see me as inferior, leave me for someone else who didn't wake up crying every week, that I hadn't stopped to consider that he might actually understand. Seeing Boris reluctant to tell me about his own dreams, I falsely assumed he was embarrassed as I had once been.

"It's okay you know, I'm not going to judge you," I said, startled when his head has snapped up, his hands pulling away from mine. His eyes were wide and frantic as he shrieked, "You'll hate me!"

I was shocked, but I didn't hesitate before shaking my head, "No, no Boris I could never hate you," I assured him, staring into his eyes. "I could _never_ ," There was a long silence as Boris stared at my shirt, his eyes dark and haunted. Somewhere in the back of the house, Popper barked. "You'll hate me," he whispered again, agony in his voice as though our friendship had already slipped through his fingers. I shook my head again, my insides squirming at the thought of ever hating him. I couldn't even imagine it. "No, I won't,"

"I...I didn't _want_ to do it," Boris began, shaking as tears gathered in his eyes. I waited patiently for him to continue, taking his trembling hands again in my own and rubbing soft circles on his milky skin.

"My father, he...he needed the money, you _have_ to believe me we were broke! He just needed the money and...and they said I-I was pretty, I-I couldn't...I couldn't...they _made_ me Theo," he cried, eyes shining with tears as he finally looked at me, "I didn't want to!" he insisted as though I might not believe him.

I wanted to vomit, my mind was piecing the rest of the story together on its own. Born and raised in the city I knew what rape was. My mother had explained it to me one evening as we had sat on the couch, the coffee table littered with Chinese takeout boxes and my father god knows where while the television broadcasted a photo of a thin, fragile-looking girl with innocent eyes as the newscaster announced that she had been raped and left to die in an alleyway. I'd cried when my mother explained to me in the gentlest way she could what rape was. I didn't understand how someone could do that to another, and I'd hurt for the girl, mourned for her. But Boris? Boris I _knew_ , Boris I had overwhelmingly passionate feelings for that I could only describe as love, yet that word didn't truly articulate how I felt for him, I didn't think anything ever would. Boris was my protector, my only true friend, my rock, my confidant, the most beautiful creature I had ever laid eyes on and someone had _broken_ him.

I hadn't spoken for a few long moments of shock as my brain tried to process this new information, and Boris was staring at me, dread in his eyes.

"If I _ever_ , come across those people I will _kill_ them Brois," I'd never been a violent person, but I meant every word of that, and Boris stared at me in shock.

"You-you don't hate me?" he questioned uncertainty in his voice but hope in his eyes. "No!" I yelled, lowering my voice when he flinched slightly, "No Boris I don't hate you. I just wish I'd known earlier, I could have helped sooner." My fingers ghosted over the shadows under his eyes, "You're gonna kill yourself if you keep avoiding sleep." Boris looked away, and I bit my lip, finally asking the question I had been dreading the answer to.

"Have...have you been having nightmares the entire time? That we've been together?" He must have seen the guilt in my eyes, for he shook his head quickly. "No, I take pills to knock me out," he explained. My brow furrowed, "Then..." my voice trailed off, the unspoken question hanging in the air. Boris shrugged. "I dunno, they stopped working."

I bit my lip again, tasting blood. "I used to take pills too you know," I started, and he nodded as though he had known that his entire life. "I hated them but they kept the nightmares away. They always left me feeling groggy though, really dizzy and sick feeling. I stopped taking them then when I came here. I ran out, really, but I didn't like them anyways. Then you, I dunno, it's just always been different with you," I rambled, not exactly sure where I was going. Boris watched me patiently, waiting for me to continue.

"What I mean, is, maybe we could do this together? They won't go away but they might get better, and your life won't depend on a pill." There were a few seconds of stunned silence before Boris' lips turned upwards in the suggestions of a smile, and a bit of his old spark seemed to shine in his eyes. "Okay," he said breathily, truly smiling at me now.

I enveloped him in a hug, pressing as close as I could to him, burying my nose in his curls and inhaling his scent. His bony arms wrapped around me too, and I felt him sigh.

"I'll always be there for you Boris, never forget that," I whispered to him. There would never be the right words to describe how much Boris meant to me, but I hoped that he knew.

"Thank you, Theo" he whispered back, sending a little thrill through me at the use of my real name.

" _I love you."_


End file.
